


Elskede : Pageboy Warrior King

by HouseOfCrows



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Eventual Relationships, Fluff, Happy fun times interspersed with torture and angst, Historical Fantasy, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-04-06 11:00:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14055501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HouseOfCrows/pseuds/HouseOfCrows
Summary: A collection of primarily romance-oriented mlm one shots, ficlets and drabbles that may or may not go anywhere. The majority of these are historical fiction, the author's notes tend to be copious. Some of them involve sex, most of that is implied and not super explicit. Rating is for the few that ARE explicit. Some of these will involve historically accurate torture. I'll tag as appropriate, as things change. Should any of these spawn a REAL story, they'll be copied to their own work so I can enlarge on them. Enjoy~





	1. Chapter 1

~1~

-William and Henry-

 

The garden was an oasis, after the harsh desert sand and relentless sun. The wind sweeping down across the distant hills would come to erase what tracks there lie beyond the city walls, and even, in time, the distant ugliness of battle. Where blood and worse stained the earth, in time, would be as new and unspoiled as it was when it was created. Those thoughts did little enough to cheer the squire. He stalked among the high sandstone walls, the distant sounds of a city falling into night doing little to soothe the tenseness that this long war had created.   
Leather boots scuffed through the dirt with every trudging step, the hem of his rough white tunic was stained with what had once been mud; now dirt ground into the once-pristine fabric and crumbling away at the slightest touch. Grey-green eyes swept across the little green space, where hardy desert plants thrived, and what water there was rippled with the breeze in its stone-walled pond. 

The quick step of booted feet across the flagstones was enough to bring his head up and around, the figure in blue and white halting, paces away.

"-Will?" The voice was low and sweet, belying the hesitation in that well-known tread.   
"...Henry." He sighed, leaning against one twisted olive tree. He reached out a hand, inviting the youth closer. "Come, it's growing cold." The squire managed a brief smile, the moment Henry's hand met his in the gathering dusk. "I'd not thought to find you here... Were you not with us at-" The touch of skin on skin, Henry's lips warm and sweet after the dust and heat.  
  
"We were not. My lord thought it unwise to leave the City so undefended." Will rested his forehead against Henry's, nuzzling at the soft, pale skin with a content sigh.   
"It makes sense enough," he muttered, more concerned with the youth in his arms than thoughts of who was lord of their order, after the carnage the day had brought. He brushed the back of his fingers along Henry's smooth cheek, before pulling him deeper into the shadow of the walls and the protective cover of the olive grove. "I am glad you were not there, your eyes should not have to behold such terrors." 

Henry twisted in his grasp, leaning back to meet the squire's steely gaze.   
"I've seen it before, Will. You know I have-" He reminded gently, the hands on his waist doing little to still the rapid-fire beating of his heart. "There's nothing left to protect me from." A lie, and they both knew it. There was one thing yet to protect the page from. One thing left to protect either of them from. But that was the way to darkness and doubt, and here, in this little corner of their lord's private garden... Where the torchlight did not reach and perhaps even God Himself could not see, such concerns could be saved for the dawn and the next battle. 

Will only drew him closer, enfolding him in arms made strong by sword and shield, by long hours of labor under the desert sun, and a holy war neither of them had chosen. He rested his cheek against the silken, copper-brown hair of his lover and nodded. Nothing to protect him from, save one, and for one moment, for one hour, one night... they had each other. It was enough. 

 

~*~

 

Will awoke in the cold blue dimness of another dawn. The empty stone halls of the little villa were silent, as yet. How many hours before dawn? Three, four? Time enough. The warm, leaden form in his arms stirred, slow and lazy kisses pressed across his chest to the slow and steady beat of his heart. Henry blinked up at him from the safety of their blankets, hazel eyes wide and innocent with the haze of dreams still in them. 

"My love-" He breathed, sliding down in the bed to pull Henry close and kiss him slowly. One hand slipping through the softness of his hair, the other caressing along the smooth, sleep-warmed curve of his hip. They kissed lazily, heat and lust leaking through the morning fog before finally, Will's tongue was pressing into his mouth, and oh, the taste of him! His hand tensed in his lover's hair, tugging his head back against the pillows as he followed that slim white arch with teeth and tongue- soothing every sharp bite and red-purple bruise as they formed beneath his loving assault. 

Henry would have writhed against the pillows, had his hair not become bound up in William's hands. He gave himself over to the older boy willingly enough, eyes drifting shut and body going pliant and willing beneath the tender siege laid against him. Soon enough, Will was covering Henry's mouth with a gentle, calloused hand.   
"Hush, love, hush-" he murmured, nuzzling along his jaw and the delicate shell of his ear. "You'll wake the whole house." He pulled away with a slow smile, hips pressing down to meet Henry's-

"Ngh! Not....fair-" Will only laughed quietly, nipping at the join of jaw and throat, before pushing back the covers to get a good, long look at his paramour. Beautifully formed, with lightly defined muscles that rippled and moved beneath the skin as Henry grasped at the pillows; a deep red blush stealing across his sun-kissed skin. The gentle swell of belly, well-loved and soft, the long line of legs moving against the sheets... He could hardly help himself! He bent, brushing his lips across Henry's blushing cheek, and down the long column of his throat to worry and nip at his collarbones. 

Henry lay beneath him gasping, panting, quiet pleas interspersed with every desperate whimpering moan of need. Will's hand found his mouth again, a gentle squeeze all the encouragement Henry needed to be silent. Even here, they could little risk discovery. William smiled wickedly in the lamplight, quirking a brow before ducking his head. 

"Mmmh, Will, what-" A sharp, stifled cry broke from Henry's lips as Will licked a long, slow, line from the base of his hardening cock to the tip, leaking pre across his stomach. Will only moaned in response, suckling at him lightly before peppering his stomach with warm, soft kisses before chasing that warm, salt-and-musk flavor back to its source. When Henry's hands found Will's short-cropped hair, the answering groan was all the younger boy required. 

Henry's coppery brown head tossed against the pillows, panting whines rising from his throat as William sucked at him in earnest. Warm, calloused hands pressing down against his hips, pinning him to the bed for every long, slow, rasp of tongue and pressure from his hot, wet mouth. 

"Will! Oh, God, please, Will- d-don't... oh, _please!_ Please, don't **stop** -" Of course Will had no intention of stopping! No desire in the least to stop, until Henry came undone beneath him, thrusting upwards into his desperately seeking mouth. A muffled groan, the imprint of ten short nails across his hips, and a quiet cry- and William got his wish. 

He licked his lips after, staring up at Henry with dark, heavy-lidded eyes.   
"Is it enough, my angel...?" He breathed. Above him, in the growing dawnlight, Henry shook his head. He pulled his lover close, kissing him fiercely. Will's mouth opened under the insistent kisses, sighing softly at every pleased noise from Henry's lips as he found what he desired. They melted into each other's embrace, Henry's hand wrapping loosely around Will's aching cock. 

"You too," he mumbled, stroking him off beneath the sheet. His teeth found Will's shoulder, the squire whispering desperate, needy words in his ear before he, too, found his release. Henry lifted his hand to his lips with a challenging look, before licking it clean. "...you still taste like heaven," he whispered, a moment before William's lips found his. 

Will pulled away, a smile teasing at his eyes.   
"I'd rather have you here, love. We'll just have to make our own heaven."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for something different...

~2~  
-Titus and James-

 

 

The Claudii are not, in general, a family to be fucked with. Particularly not when it comes to the happiness of those they hold dear, or the freedom to dispense with their rather obscene wealth how and where they so choose. So, when it came to Justinian Claudius Catulus Titus' young lover... no joy was too little, and no amount too large. Not even in the face of his beloved's frequent protestations and requests that such painful extravagance be terminated. Justinian was not a man to be crossed, nor was he generally one to take such an indication of low self-worth laying down.

The family villa in Capua, while by no means as elaborate or refined as the Domus in Mother Rome, was by no means a hovel. When he found the youth wandering the gardens, he followed. If he heard the quiet footfalls behind him, James made little indication. When he finally came to rest, it was beneath the blossoming fruit trees. Justinian reached for his hand, taking it gently in his own before pulling him into his arms. James leaned backwards against him, his weight settling pleasantly against Justinian's chest.

"Hello, Titus," he murmured, turning to gaze up at him with beautiful green-brown eyes. Justinian smiled at the use of his private name, bending to kiss his lover tenderly.   
"James-" He breathed, cupping his jaw and pressing another soft kiss to his warm lips. James tugged free, turning to wrap his arms around his lover's waist and rest his head against his solid chest.   
"I'm sor-" Justinian caught him close, hushing him lightly.  
"It is of no consequence, sweetling," He murmured. "No apologies. Not here, you understand?" James nodded, slowly. It made a sort of sense, he supposed. The villa was about freedom from the constraints of Roman society, the press of Patrician obligation. If Titus didn't want him to obsess over the expense and associated stresses of keeping him, then maybe... Justinian's hand found his cheek, drawing his gaze back to his own. "Be still, my little love. Just allow me to hold you, tonight. To love you, as you deserve to be loved." 

It was something of a shock, even knowing Titus as he did. Titus was a demanding man, one with little concern for the cares of others unless they somehow dovetailed with his own. He was often just as demanding in bed, though the gentle pleas to submit, to yield to his whims, just as often belied the stern, commanding exterior of the Legatus. There must be something to this sudden bend, this acknowledgement of his own desires... Justinian smiled, ruefully; lifting James' hand slowly to his lips.

"No expectations. No requirements. Just you, in my arms, where you belong- where I want you to be, for as long as you desire it. Allow me this, please?" That break in the strong voice, the softening in brown eyes, the yearning in them. These were new. James nodded slowly, leaning into his touch. This he could allow. For his lover's sake, if not his own. Justinian smiled down at him, that bittersweet yearning not quite soothed. He nodded.

Justinian pulled James into his arms with one gentle tug, and scooped him up into wide, strong arms and made for his own chambers. The marble halls rung with his footsteps, before he shouldered open the door and kicked it shut behind them. In his arms, James clung to his shoulders, eyes wide and bright before Justinian was depositing him on the bed, and bolting the door before following him down. Leaning against the bed with fire in his eyes as he untied first one sandal, and then the other before slinking across the fur-covered bed towards him. 

"No expectations. No requirements," he repeated quietly, leaning over his lover; spread across the silk and linen blankets beneath them.   
"...Don't want to disappoint you," James' voice sounded small in the high-ceilinged room, lost. He bent, brushing his lips across James' in a gentle, chaste kiss. Nearly unheard of for the demanding Patrician. "Or upset you-" the kiss broke off what might have come next, the words swallowed in the hard, needy embrace that followed. Justinian pulled him close against his body, James more than willing and just as desperate to be held in those strong, muscled arms. Justinian cupped the back of his head gently, cradling him close.

"Oh, sweetling. You have never disappointed me, neither have you upset me." He nuzzles gently along his lover's brow, pressing warm kisses into the silky flesh. He pulls away to kiss slowly along his jaw, nudging his head to the side to offer more room- "I wish only to make you smile, to have you happy with me, beloved." James nodded, languid heat seeping into his bones and leaving him pliant beneath the Roman's attentions. "Just because I have not known your touch in the ways I most long for, because I have yet to witness you fall apart beneath me.... these things are trifles of passion as yet unexpressed." The brown eyes darkened, sharpened, as hard iron entered his voice. "I love you for more than the delights your body could offer, sweetling. These have no bearing at all on whether or not I find you disappoint... nor anything less than utterly divine." He nips gently at his flesh, watching the pulse race beneath his skin.   
James whimpers softly, silk sheets a soft rustle beneath his body as he finally sinks back against the pillows, staring up at his Titus with a wide, warm gaze.   
"I. I think I understand," he breathed. 

Justinian reached out, tracing the line of his jaw and brushed his thumb across the hammering pulse in his throat.   
"Beloved, when I finally have you in the way I desire... when you are finally held beneath my touch, arching, writhing, aching beneath me... I fully intend to spoil you with pleasure. To give, and give, and give, until you are overwhelmed with it; every need of your flesh inflamed past any hope of return. Make no mistake, beloved, you will scream for me, before I finally take you over that precipice into satisfaction~" He purred, tongue flicking out to trace the shell of his ear, nipping and sucking at the pale lobe before pulling away with a wicked smirk. "Every part of you is beautiful, every imperfect piece put together in ways even an artless soldier might appreciate." He traced the curve of his hip through his linen tunic with another slow, languorous smile.  "But, for now, my sweet... I am content to hold you, to see you among these earthly beauties, to clothe you as I will, to feed you as I will, and to see your face beside me when I wake. Time enough for fleshly pursuits. For the moment, being near you is pleasure enough for me."

 

He settled James in beside him, brushing his lips across his blushing cheek in the merest ghost of a kiss before laying back against the pillows and drawing his lover in against his chest.   
"Sleep with me, sweetling. It's too hot for words." James settled in against him, listening to the steady beat of his heart and the reassuring cadence of his breath. His own heartbeat was thunder in his ears, those words twining around him and settling beneath his skin. Hard to understand it as truth, harder still to take it to heart and allow it to be true. Harder to trust. For now, there was nothing to do but to allow himself to be held, and take comfort in the steady, solid presence of his lover. Titus was going nowhere. For now, it was enough.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

~3~  
-Mhàrtainn and Ruaidrí-

Icy wind blew flurries of snow across the rocky northern coast, the brown winter grass seeming to shrivel further in the face of the frost to come. Mhàrtainn leaned against the thick stone wall of the high tower, tugging his plaid down over his shoulders. The chill wind sliced through even the thick green and brown wool, the blue striping keeping him from completely disappearing against the overgrown, ivy-covered building. He watched the distant sea, the late winter storm approaching soon sending him inside. 

Within the heavy defense of the tower house, the fires roaring in the hearths were, at best, enough to take the chill from the air. He nodded a greeting to his uncle, before taking the stairs below to the kitchens. There, preparations were already being made towards dinner. He dodged the serving maids and the cook with adroitness, soon backing himself into a warm corner out of the way, and set to simple tasks. The warmth was worth the service, even if his uncle was the laird, and even if he had ideas about what could rightly be expected of the laird's own nephew, born of his beloved sister. Still and all, peeling and slicing late autumn apples for a tart was a far better and more enjoyable occupation than being set to attending the kennels or the stables. Here, in the bowels of their home, there was heat and light amid the grey clouds and freezing rains. 

The sound of wooden utensils on metal pots, the heavy thunk of knives hitting wooden cutting tables, and the dull, methodical slap of dough being kneaded formed their own unique harmony to his work. It was an easy rhythm to fall into, meditative. He came to himself near a half hour later, a small pile of apples gone over, and peelings piled beside him. He yawned, rolling his shoulders and stretching lazily in the warmth, before offering the bowl of fruit to one of the maids and sweeping the peelings into the bucket for the pigs' next feed. Before he could be grabbed for another such task, Mhàrtainn ducked out of the kitchens and absconded back upstairs. 

His uncle, Fergus, was not the sort to approve of work for his nephew. Other cousins and boys of the Clan, perhaps, could be set to menial labor and busywork, but his nephew should be found at his books, or occupations better suited to his station. True enough that all pulled their weight; but there were many different ways and means to do it, and not all of them involved his nephew down in the kitchens. There were serving boys for that sort of thing, after all, and his own kin were not serving boys. A fine and sore distinction, as his uncle was no member of the nobility, for all he came of Clan MacKay. 

He found his uncle where he had been, sitting in front of the fire with the hounds at his feet. He crept past on silent feet, not willing to disturb him, or draw down a lecture about his rights and responsibilities. In truth, such things should have been kept for his own sons, but as Cailean and Duncan had been out hunting and were not expected until the following morning, Mhàrtainn was the only near kinsman about to receive the lectures. The youth side in relief when the heavy door swung shut behind him, meaning sure and certain safety until dinner was called. Time enough to do as he pleased, without the over-watchful eye of servants, kin, or the grey-eyed sea hawk that was his aunt.

The quiet knock that came at his door near twenty minutes later was a surprise. In fact, he nearly dropped the green-bound book he'd been reading. Mhàrtainn set it aside carefully, before rising to open the door. Scarcely had he walked two paces before the heavy oaken thing creaked open to reveal his younger "cousin" Ruaidrí, a fosterling from Clan Grant, sent to keep him out of harm's way along the border. With more English coming to the Highlands in support of their king, and to quell any further rebellious attitude,  it made more than a little sense.  
  
"Rory! Ye gave me a fright!" He cursed quietly, taking his hand and pulling him into the room. The door swung shut behind, and Mhàrtainn crossed his arms across his chest. "What are you y'doin up here?"  
"I looked for you below, but didn't see you," the boy complained easily, fondness in his eyes. "I thought your uncle had sent you back out again, but had a mind to check your room first." Rory's accent was not so broad as Mhàrtainn's, being that he'd spent far more time among the lowlanders and English.  "'M glad I found you here. It's far too cold to be outside at night." 

It was true enough. After dark the winds grew stronger without the sun, and even the trees did little to keep it from howling around the castle walls. Mhàrtainn rolled his eyes and huffed.   
"'D sooner risk my uncle's wrath down in the kitchens than be out on a night like this without good reason, and y'know it." Rory had the grace to blush, but nodded anyway. The younger boy inched closer, looking up at Mhàrtainn with an earnest, pleading face.   
"But you can't be mad at me! Not really....can you?" Rory shifted up onto his toes, pressing a quick, shy kiss to Mhàrtainn's cheek. "I only want'd to spend some time with you before dinner. You wouldn't throw me out into the hall, would you?" With a quiet growl of feigned annoyance for all the teasing, Mhàrtainn tugged Rory firmly against his chest, wrapping an arm tight around his waist.  
"I'd not throw you out, and y'are a terrible tease for even suggestin' it to me," a moment before his mouth pressed against Rory's. When he finally released the copper-haired boy in his arms, Rory's eyes were dark and blown wide.  
"...remind me to tease you more often?" 

Mhàrtainn's answer was to pull him close again.

 

~*~

 

When the boys made it down to dinner, it was with their kilts straightened, hair properly combed, and bright eyes. If any of the servants, or even Mhàrtainn's aunt had an inkling of what they'd gotten up to, no one said a word. And if Mhàrtainn's eyes lingered a little too long, or his hand remained after passing some supper item to his "cousin," the only one to see it and know it for what it was, was his Rory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mhàrtainn is of Clan MacKay. I only came to that after about six hours of research, and a very basic understanding of the geography, politics, and culture of the Highlands. It made the most sense to me, given what I know about the character, and how it's playing out in my mind. He was obviously from a northern coastal region, insisted on being a Highlander, and was bound and determined to make it so.   
> If this story ends up being set during the Second Jacobite Uprising; 1745 ish; he's going to defect to Clan MacKenzie and join the Jacobites. If, however, it stays loosely based in 1650-1800s, I won't make any particular mention of his politics other than "They Exist, and The Boy Wears Tartans." {Yes, Tartans were outlawed as a way of decimating Scottish pride and nationalistic thought, my brain does not care~ Also: look at the Grants of Glenmoriston and get back to me.}
> 
> I put a lot of love and effort into this thing, because I think it's worth it to do the best I can. So, keeping in mind that the Original Celts/Keltoi/etc were fucking magpies and peacocks and would most definitely have shelled out for whatever brighter dyes they could barter, bargain, or buy, and that "Clan Tartans" are only codified post-19th Century after the resurgence, and "family/sept/community" tartans were a thing the way that patterns and local dyes were a thing..... Please don't squint too hard at this. It's a Historical Fantasy for a REASON. 
> 
> Reason being, I've got hardly any idea, just a deep love for my "mother culture" as a child of various diaspora from the UK. While I do my utmost to be historically accurate and respectful, if I blunder, I blunder because there are pay walls and I find it hard to locate accurate articles. The internet is full of over-romaticized bullshit, and movies like Braveheart, King Arthur, Brigadoon and more, and finding the truth beneath the dreck is a miserable task.
> 
> It's a task I muddle through, because I adore the history and I'm proud to come from a country with such a long memory. This is a work of love, for characters I love, and not done in any way to make mock of the history and culture to which they belong.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is an AU to -Dominus- and will make sense if you've read the first two chapters of it, at least. {WIP} 
> 
> "What would have happened if Ryan hadn't submitted to Justinian, and been sold in Rome?" Along with potentially being given a Roman name and his hair being shorn, he would have likely ended up someplace much, much different than as the bed slave of a {potentially} over-indulgent Patrician.   
> He might have ended up in a very, very different place indeed.
> 
> This chapter isn't particularly smutty. Future chapters involving these two WILL be, and will also probably include some depictions of gore and/or violence. Consider this your warning, and if we get there, tags will be amended.
> 
> \--  
> The OCs and historical mistakes belong entirely and solely to me.... any recognizable characters belong to history, or to HBO's ROME, depending on how you look at it~ Regardless, I do not own them.

~4~

-Fionnbharr and Evander-

 

After Gaius Caesar's return to Rome from Greece, the streets were a riot of color. As the city held its breath in anticipation of the Triumph, Fionnbharr walked the Forum. With the approach of Caesar's triumph, people were crowding the Forum in search of clothing, jewelry, and other goods to help with the coming social upheaval of such an event. A man in his mid thirties, Fionnbharr had joined the Roman army at the first opportunity- The promise not only of citizenship but basic rights had appealed to the young Keltoi, and so he had signed his life away. At the end of his required service, and as a part of the political and social triumph that was Caesar's return, his entire regiment was being gifted their freedom and rights as Roman Citizens. Should he decide to re-enlist, it would be as a free man and a Roman Citizen. IF he decided to re enlist... the Legio III Gallica had been good to him. Better than many auxiliary legions had been to his countrymen. And, should he decide to join Caesar again, he would be made _Evocati_.... The thought appealed. For now, though, he thought of little else but spending the spoils of eight years away.

A careful and canny man, who sold his services often to those too lazy or unskilled to keep their own gear, he had made out better than many. For sharpening swords and renewing the tack of the Equestrian units in Gaul, he had been paid, if not handsomely, fairly and well. So he wandered through the Forum, eventually finding himself in the slave markets. As part of his agreement with Rome, he had been given land, as well as his citizenship. A good farm, outside Rome, in the fertile hills. A place such as that would require slaves. 

He had taken as many as a man of his rank of Centurion could, but it would do him no good to keep untried and rebellious Gauls, even on a piece of land owned by a Gaul. So as he had them sold, his wealth had increased yet again. With the money, he'd started a smithy in the Aventine, a genteel public face for the services he'd gained in the Legions of Rome. 

~*~

The slave market was a noisy place, raucous with the cries of vendors and masters vying for a better price and often as not, getting nowhere. It was nearing late afternoon when Fionnbharr finally spotted the one he wanted. A small, long-limbed creature with vague definition in his muscles and eyes like the raging sea. The bidding was low enough; for the most part considered unskilled save for his musical talent, no prized beauty though he bore the requisite pale skin, and less than year as a slave of Rome. He was being sold by another soldier, one Justinian Titus of the Claudii. Knowing him to be a reasonable man of the Thirteenth, it stood to reason that the slave would be of; if not docile; even temperament. As he bore no "FVGITIVUS" tattoo upon his body, Fionnbharr found himself will to take the risk. The boy was compelling, even if he were not considered a prize, and the way he looked over the crowd, instead of lowering his head in fear or shame, bespoke pride. It was enough. 

~*~

Fionnbharr counted out the coins and took the lead tying the boy's hands together before him. He removed the little wax tablet from his neck and returned it to the auctioneer, before dragging the boy out of the busy marketplace and into a quiet side street. He backed his slave against the wall, wrapping the rope around his hand several times while speaking to him quietly. Calmly. 

"So, you are mine now," he said easily, paying little attention to the boy's expression or attitude. "I've bought you, and that is the way of it here. I do not know how you came to be in Rome, and I find myself uncaring of the circumstances of your capture. Your future is here now, and I hold it in my very hands. If you run, you will be caught. If you try to escape me, the law demands your punishment, or your death at my decision. I would rather not have you beaten or killed... your flesh is beautiful to look upon, and I would not have paid so much for you only to have my investment all for nothing." He lifted his gaze from the rope coiled in his fist. "So. What is your answer, boy. Will you submit, or will I sell you back to someone who will be far less kind than I may be...?" 

The boy called Evander shifted against the wall, the stones of it digging into his shoulders uncomfortably. He had listened to the man's speech, understanding the shape of it even if he had not understood every word directly. He had hidden, when the Romans had invaded his village and taken them all for slaves for their rebellion and refusal to pay taxes to Rome. He had tried to serve his first Master, and was unable. He found the sexually demanding officer to be degrading, and humiliating. Here was someone who may well ask the same of him, and yet. And yet, the features were not Roman, though his demeanor and stance left him no doubt that he was yet another soldier. He bit his lip carefully, considering. He could be beaten for answering unsatisfactorily, or perhaps. Perhaps his new master wanted only the truth, and nothing else.   
"....Ita, Domine," he murmured, lifting eyes like moss and growing things cut with blue, to the brilliant green of his captor. "I submit." Fionnbharr laughed quietly, shaking his head.   
"Your Latin needs work, but we will have time."

~*~

The house above the shop was small, if comfortable. It bore a living space, a walled-off bedroom, and a considerable kitchen as well as sleeping spaces for three slaves. Fionnbharr had only the one, for now. He laid the bolt across the door when they had entered, and opened a small chest that lay beside the bed on a shelf, and brought it to the table in the kitchen.  
"I will not have you taken from me, or used in any way save the ones I desire," he said quietly, drawing out a slim metal ring hammered into a band. "This bears my name and marks you as my property. If you are found beyond the Aventine, I will be notified." Evander had no choice but to bow his head and allow it to be fixed around his neck and fastened in place. "You are intelligent, I know. You understand what happens to runaways, and those who do harm," He smiled, before lifting the hem of his tunic and sliding it over his slave's head, baring him to the light. 

Evander felt his muscles tighten, uncertain about the sudden direction his Dominus was taking, but he forced no further physical contact. Instead, he moved towards the end of the room, where a basin of cool water was waiting.  
"Come, boy, or do you intend to stand there?" He blushed, moving quickly across the floor to where Fionnbharr was soaking a piece of soft linen. "Good boy. Time enough for talk, and to understand one another. For now... for now, this is enough."

Evander found himself being bathed, slowly and carefully. The dirt of the markets, the slave pens, and all the long painful road that had gone before. Fionnbharr made much of the bruises and minor wounds he'd suffered, soothing them with water from the basin, wrung out into a bucket on the floor. Finally, he pushed the tangle of hair from his forehead, and ordered him to stand still. He soon returned, carrying shears.   
"Have no fear, my pet. It will soon grow again." He set to cutting the snarls away, until the Keltoi had as short hair as any new soldier. He smiled fondly, brushing it from his shoulders. "There, not so very bad, is it?" 

The slave shook his head, at once grateful for the care and mourning the loss. And yet.... and yet, his Dominus had told him he might grow it long again, perhaps to braid it as he had before his slavery. Fionnbharr saw the battle on his face, and pulled him close, letting the shears fall to the stand holding the basin.  
"Hush, little one. No tears for what is lost. We start anew, yes?" He murmured, before bending the boy over the tub and pouring what water was left over his head to wash away the fallen hair and leave him clean. He left the boy with a linen towel, and took the bucket and the gathered hair to throw them over the balcony. 

While his Dominus was otherwise occupied, Evander dried himself quick and careful. He was grateful to find no nicks or further injuries anywhere, not even a bruise from too-tight a grip on his arm. And, though his wrists were raw from the coarse ropes, his Dominus had done nothing to harm him, really. Only offered dire warnings and calm smiles. This might be a better life, by far... who knew what the future might hold.

~*~

The weeks passed quickly and they fell into a pattern. Fionnbharr rose often with the dawn to heat the forge and the ringing of his hammer could be heard as soon as the Aventine came awake with the bustle of crowds going about their lives and trades. He sharpened swords and created weapons for Caesar's legions, and he mended pots and created chains for the Aventine. From horse shoes to decorative pieces, he plied his trade while Evander tidied the house above, cleaned clothing and bedding, and cooked their meals. At night, the big Gaul pulled him close, and held him there as he slept, waking each morning as they had fallen asleep.  Almost Evander could forget that he was a slave, until some order came or a look of Fionnbharr's made him understand that he was, after all, a slave.

"Boy... do you find me repulsive?" The question came from nowhere, as Fionnbharr was sat at the table, drinking wine and eating the food that Evander had set before him while the boy had an infrequent bath. Evander sunk lower in the water, his hair long enough now to have a wave when it was dry.   
"...No, Domine, I do not find you repulsive-" The Roman rose, wine cup in hand. He strode across to the large wooden tub and knelt beside it, gazing down at the boy within.   
"Why then do you shy away when I look at you?" He reached out, turning Evander's face back towards his own. "You know I find you comely, and yet I have not laid a hand upon you. Do you fear me?" Evander shook his head, mindful of the strong, calloused hand currently gripping his chin. "Then have I offended you in some way?" 

Evander felt the misery coiling in his chest, drawing his arms over himself as if hiding. Fionnbharr sighed heavily, releasing him and made as if to stand. Evander quickly laid a hand on his arm, swallowing hard.   
"Domine, it is... it is not that I do not find you attractive, nor that you have offended me. It is only that... that I am a slave, and should not think so of my Dominus." In truth, lying beside him, night after night, had done little to quell his growing attraction. And the gentle care that Fionnbharr showed him in most things, was a welcome relief. "...If I have given you cause to believe otherwise, I am most sorry, Domine." 

The Gaul shook his head, hiding the amusement in his gaze as he downed what was left of the wine and left the cup beside the tub.   
"Then we have both been suffering in silence, beautiful creature, for I have wanted you in my bed since I laid eyes upon you in the markets." Evander blinked in confusion, before understanding set in. A crimson flush bloomed across his cheeks and he twitched, the water rippling around him.   
"I... I don't-" Fionnbharr slid a hand through his growing hair, tugging gently. He exposed the boy's throat, staring down at him with undisguised desire.   
"You are beautiful. Perfect and pale, the sun does not touch you except to kiss your flesh. Your skin, flawless in its loveliness, and your eyes." Green eyes stared down at him, gazing into his with certainty, "Your eyes are like jewels. Gems full of fire-" The only sound was the Gaul's breath and the low whine from his slave. 

Evander melted under that gaze, unable to draw his eyes from Fionnbharr's.   
"Domine-" Fionnbharr's grip tightened in his hair for one brief moment before he caught the boy's wrists, holding them tight before bending down and meeting the boy's mouth with his own. He kissed him roughly, slow and thoroughly, pinned against the side of the tub. Fionnbharr pulled away after a long moment sucking at the boy's lower lip before releasing him. He gazed down at him, with eyes blown wide and dark.   
"I want nothing so much as to make you mine in truth, boy. You will be sharing my bed tonight, I will hear no arguments."

Evander sunk lower in the cooling water, a deep red blush staining his pale cheeks.  
"....Ita, Domine," he managed, his voice hoarse; lips swollen with the man's hard kisses. "As you wish."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Historically Inclined:   
> We're also going to pretend that the Auxiliary legions with Caesar provided Diploma; legal Roman citizenship (with or without the right to vote and hold public office); before Emperor Claudius. 1: because I need it for this plot to work long-term, basically, 2: because it's a super neat detail of Roman History, and 3: because it appears he might have only REGULARIZED the practice and not originated it. However the first one we have, is from Claudius' time period.... so. I'm fudging details~
> 
> For the sake of it, we'll fudge even further, and call Fionnbharr a soldier of the Legio III Gallica; the Third Gallic Legion; and go with the supposition that they were recruited primarily of Gauls. Considering his long time in the military in order to gain his freedom and citizenship, we're also making him a Centurion. Because I prefer officer uniforms, he needs the right amount of capital to build a Smithy, and because I Said So. Also if he'd been in the army twenty years and hadn't at least gotten to Centurion, I'd be pissed. so~


	5. Chapter 5

~5~

-Eirick and Soren-

 

Pale sunlight filtering through the window was what woke him. The grey-gold dawn and the heat of his lover pressed against him. Eirick stretched carefully, working the stiffness from his neck and shoulders before pulling his sleeping paramour close once more. Rough hands, surprising in their gentleness, brushed the loose hair from his cheek, before kissing it lightly. Eirick loved waking like this- Nothing but the sleep-warmed comfort of furs and woolens, the softness of linen sheets- and Soren, close beside him. The steady rise and fall of his chest, the sweet innocence that dreams imparted to that well-loved face. This was heaven.

Eirick laid beside him, content, needing nothing more. 

Every so often, Soren's brow would crease and he would shift in his sleep; seeking the solid unwavering presence of his lover. Eirick pulled him closer still when that happened, cradling his body lightly against his own; offering the sought for comfort with a soft, loving smile. These were the moments he lived for. A lazy morning with nothing to be done, the man who was his very heart in his arms, asleep and at peace. He pressed a tender, loving kiss to his brow, before pulling the furs higher around them both, and drifting back to sleep. 

The day could wait for them both. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little one-shot sometime after their relationship is established. Cute, unabashed fluffery. Deal.

~6~

-Fionnbharr and Evander-

 

Fionnbharr watched the boy drift into sleep, the blue-specked hazel eyes sliding shut, the lines of his face smoothing away into peace. It was almost hypnotic. The rhythms of his breath and heartbeat, the way his quiet sighs stirred his hair; that one strand that always seemed to fall into his eyes- He reached out before he knew what he was doing and smoothed it back into place. Evander stirred, blinking tiredly up at him.   
"...Fionn'?" He bent, brushing a gentle kiss across his lips, cupping the warm jaw in a rough hand.   
"Hush, little one," he murmured, nudging lightly at his forehead with his own. "Hush, I'm here-" Fionnbharr had little enough idea why that should be reassuring. He'd put the boy through more suffering than perhaps he should have done. But the bruises marking his flesh looked like galaxies, and the raw welts that dragged across his back and along his ribs were warm and red against the pale skin- 

He shivered and sighed, stroking his thumb lightly across his boy's pale, pink lower lip. _So exquisite-_  
"Hnn?" Fionnbharr started, oh gods he'd said that aloud! He managed a smile, hand gliding through silky brown hair.   
"It's alright, my treasure," he said softly, "you've nothing to fear. You've done so well for me tonight, little one. Done everything I asked of you, behaved so beautifully for me-" Surely Evander's throat was raw with the screaming, hoarse with the cries Fionnbharr had wrung from him over hours. He must be exhausted by now, but to allow him to slip into sleep was almost a travesty when it would close those warm jewel-eyes. 

Fionnbharr bent once more to steal another kiss from kiss-swollen lips, purring when his boy moaned and pressed into his arms.   
"Shhh, my little one-" His own eyes closing against his will. "I'm here, I love you-" 

The words slipped out without intent, and yet once they were spoken, they were there, hanging in the air between them. Evander smiled sleepily against his chest, but made no other sign that he had heard. Heart pounding, Fionnbharr drew him closer, wrapping his arms and the blankets about them both. Maybe he hadn't heard, maybe there was no need for further conversation... He rested his head against the boy's, holding him closely. "Just rest, my treasure. I am here." Fionnbharr fell asleep with Evander held in his arms, their breathing synchronizing in the dark. 

In dreams, Evander still smiled. He had heard, even if he gave no sign- Time enough for words when the sun rose.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not Love's Possession compliant, this is its own thing

~7~

 

-Fionnbharr and Evander-

 

Fionnbharr had made a mistake, somewhere. Miscalculated a glance, seen something that was not there, some invitation he had hoped to see and did not exist. Not for him. Many would refuse to walk on eggshells around one that they utterly possessed. Most would refuse to acknowledge their wrongdoing, and demand their wishes be fulfilled without regard. Fionnbharr found himself incapable of that. 

The forge rang with the sound of hammer on anvil, the roar of the fire a match for the ocean of his pulse while he sweltered in the heat. The salt stung his skin, burned his eyes where he refused to wipe it away; wallowing in the ache of shoulder and arm, sear of sweat, the dull lost feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had expected too much, needed too much, asked too much. The confession had lain at the tip of his tongue for weeks, been given breath only after Evander lay asleep in his arms, or had left the room. Night after night he'd lain awake in the dark, the pale moonlight caressing his Evander's face. 

But there was the crux of the matter. He brought the hammer hard to bear against the piece he was forging, teeth gritted together. Evander did not belong to him in that way. Could not, would not. It did not matter that he cared for him as tenderly as a lover; that he offered up the works of his hands and the labor of his days with an open heart. It did not matter that his heart stopped in his chest and the air was stolen from his lungs when the boy entered the room. It did not matter that he laid awake at night to listen to the beat of his heart and the sound of his breathing, slow and even in sleep. 

These things mattered naught at all when Evander was not free to make his own decisions. They mattered even less than that, when Evander had finally heard his confession; and how many nights had it been since the first?; half-asleep and drowsing. He had offered Fionnbharr no reply, not even a smile to assuage the sudden, heavy knowing. That night, there was distance between them at last. Desire might have turned to fancy, and fancy to adoration and emotion... but could it rightly be called love? 

The glowing iron hissed like an angry cat when it met water, held tight in metal tongs. Fionnbharr thrust it back into the fire, and turned to the bellows, stoking the flames still higher. There were no answers in the ash and embers, no response in flame and smoke. Only more questions, turned end over end like the folding of red-hot metal as Fionnbharr vented his frustrations at work. He longed, suddenly, for the wilds of Gaul, for the endless rainy desolation of Britannia- to be mounted and racing with the wind along the foothills and the plains...

When the piece was glowing he removed it, the hammer ringing off its surface once more. What call had Evander to forgive him his mistake? The pressures such a confession added to their already complicated existence...? What right had he to speak of feelings and emotion to one who had no recourse? Surely he could demand nothing of the boy; surely he could not ask him to feel the same, to experience the same. It had slipped from him in a moment of weakness, of raw emotion. A common enough mistake for a man in his cups or drunk on what the poets might call love. But a soldier. A Praefectus. More control was required of him, a tighter rein on his heart and mind, a firmer grasp on the realities; no wallowing in the tides and magnetic pull of the boy who slept in his arms and shared his bed....

Not even if his high, well formed brow bespoke intelligence and careful thought. Not even if his face had been carved by the Muses, his body crafted by Venus and Eros. Not even if Apollo had granted him the sweetest voice, and Pluto himself had offered the jewels for his eyes- The fire blazed when he returned the iron to the fire, and he leaned heavily on his hands against the anvil, shoulders shaking. 

Gods help him. Gods save him, what had he done...? He hadn't meant to cause such a rift, not when they had been growing steadily closer over the weeks and months since Evander had entered his life in a rush of gold-brown hair and sea green eyes. Heaven help him, he could not go an hour without thinking of the softness of his skin and the sweetness of his gaze, the way his hands moved; delicate and lyrical in their grace. Could no sooner exorcise the boy from his mind than stop his own heart and yet... with one whispered confession, five words spoken in the dark, it seemed as though he had crushed some budding flower underfoot with no hope of recovery. 

Now, his every look seemed avoided, his every touch shrugged off. The words to heal and mend what had been broken would not come, no matter how long he spent in the forge, trying new phrases and attempting new reasoning. No consolation seemed enough, no apology sincere in its meaning to bridge whatever gap now lay between them. Did Evander think he had been mocking him? Feel as though he had been used, or that this was some new way of leveraging more from him than the boy desired...? Did it even matter, in the end? 

The final hammer blows fell, the final twists put to the metal and he quenched it again, and laid it to rest on the anvil. He sat, heavily, wooden stool wobbling beneath him near as unsteady as his heavy heart. He reached for a rag and the sand, and set to polishing the thing he had created. Pondering all the while what he might say, were he afforded the opportunity. Truth, he would write it if he could be assured of Evander's literacy, but he would not take such a thing for granted and risk widening the divide. 

~*~

Evander did not look up when Fionnbharr entered the house, just silently placed wine and bread before him and turned to leave him in peace. Only Fionnbharr's gentle hand on his wrist forestalled him.   
"Please-" the word was soft in the silence, a plea with heart-rending distress that would have stopped Evander in his tracks even without the calloused grip. "Please. You do not have to go, if you are uncomfortable, I will sleep elsewhere. I will not put you out, would not ask anything of you that gives you such pain." Fionnbharr released him, stung by his own impulsiveness. "Evander," he swallowed, inhaled and tried again. "Evander, please. It was wrong, selfish of me, to confess such a thing to you when I do not know your mind. Impulsive, rash- A moment of weakness, I let down my guard too far and I hoped.... had hoped, that you would see it for what it was. A.... ah, it... it does not matter, what was meant. Only that now you feel so far from me, at a remove I cannot hope to close alone."

Fionnbharr stared down at his hands, missing the tensing of Evander's shoulders and the way his nails bit into his palms.  
"Evander, I... I am sorry. From the depths of me, I apologize for any ill or harm that I have caused you with my actions. I have pressed harder than I should have done, asked more of you than any just man could- I do not ask that you feel the same, do not require it of you. I will not ask you to share a room with me, to sleep beside me as you have done; to make yourself so vulnerable to me. I.... will never lift a hand to you in peace or desire if you will it so, I will go to the Forum and free you this very hour if you ask it of me-" He choked, eyes burning and this time there was no forge heat to blame for the salt in his eyes. "I do not ask your forgiveness, for I do not think it something you can offer. Nor would I, for feeling as I do... but only for its expression without thought of your consent to hear it spoken." 

Evander's hand twitched, but he said nothing, still not meeting Fionnbharr's gaze nor turning to look at him.   
"...It is not that I am unwilling, nor that I am not interested in trying what you suggest to me. But I cannot give you an answer now." Fionnbharr rose from his chair, taking the cup and leaving the rest.  
"Then I will say no more, and ask no more of you. I leave you to the house, and.... should you have need of me, I will remain in the forge tonight. And every night after, until you make your choice. And if you choose freedom, I will go to the Forum and release you as soon as there are lawyers to hear." He smiled a sad, half-smile, and disappeared into the night air, leaving Evander with the amphora of wine, the bread, and what would have been a shared cena as had happened since Evander entered his home. 

~*~

Fionnbjarr unrolled the spare straw mattress across the floor and took a fur from a trunk beneath his work bench. The knowledge that he had at least tried to right his wrong was cold comfort, but at least it was something like the right direction. He prayed, silently, that he would not have too long to wait, and that Evander would make the decision he felt most right, regardless of how Fionbharr felt. He hoped it was enough.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS YOUR UNAPOLOGETIC SMUT WARNING~

~8~

-Mhàrtainn and Ruaidrí-

 

The spring was as sudden and swift as the first chill winds of winter had been, and the rocky coastline came alive with color and the salt wind. One such rainy afternoon found Mhàrtainn alone in his room again, the rain beating against the glass panes of the windows. The tutors had gone, and the rooms were silent again; both bedroom and small library ante-room. It came as little enough surprise when Rory crept through the outer doors and into the bedroom.   
"Mhàrtainn-?" He smiled quietly, setting the book aside before looking up to greet his "cousin."   
"Rory~ 's been a fair few days since ye've come seekin' me out," He acknowledged, beckoning him close. There was no malice in his voice, no anger. They both knew the dangerous game they played, even if were played in manors and castles across the highlands. 

Rory went willingly, settling himself in the older boy's lap and pressed a sweet, chaste kiss to his lips.   
"I missed you," he breathed, and Mhàrtainn pulled him closer still, teasing open his mouth with lips and tongue; his own admission.

~*~

The linen sheets were soft and well-worn, and the feel of them against his bare back was a soothing counterpoint to the imprint of nails and the red scratches spread across his skin. Rory was kneeling over him, pinning his wrists with an easy grip as he kept Mhàrtainn captive to his ministrations. He'd already approached the edge four times in the hour they'd spent together, and been held off. His throat was hoarse with pleading, his eyes wide and blown as Rory just smiled down at him and slid his tongue back into his lover's mouth to silence his whimpering pleas. 

Mhàrtainn's hips ground against the bed, bucking and thrusting upwards into the hot, tight grip of Rory's hand. It was maddening; the pressure, the delicious friction, and the growing desperation to find release. Rory released his wrists to pin his hips to the bed with his forearm, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses across his belly and hips; ignoring the throbbing, achingly hard cock before him.

"Mmm, now now, Mhàr, you know you've got to ask nicely, and I've hardly heard anything but 'please' and 'god, Rory~" he teased lightly, running a finger from head to root to watch it twitch. Mhàrtainn keened, hands fisting in the sheets as his hips rocked upwards, seeking what Rory would not give. The younger boy laughed softly and bore down, pinning him to the mattress once more. "Ah, ah~ No... ask me, Mhàr, you know you can-"   
"R-Rory, please..." God but he was _wrecked_ , and pleasure was sweet as Rory looked down at his handiwork with lust in his eyes. "Please, please, Rory, please let me, I swear, I'll obey, just let me-" 

The hot mouth that engulfed him was slick and the pressure of his tongue wrapping around the head of his cock was more than enough to send him flying over the edge with a shout muffled just in time by biting the pillow beneath his head. His hands tore and dug at the sheets, only the pressure of Rory's arm keeping him from jacking up into his mouth. When it was over, Rory wiped his lips on the back of his hand and smiled smugly,  
"We're not done yet, lover. Not by a long shot." 

Rory's slicked fingers found his entrance and pushed, and it was all Mhàrtainn could do not to scream in tormented pleasure.

~*~

Mhàrtainn was sore and shaking by the time he prayed Rory would deem them "done." He'd been made to come another two times, once around Rory's clever, thrusting fingers and once around his cock. They lay against the bed, spent and aching, a mess of tangled limbs and sweat-matted hair. Rory trailed lazy kisses down his chest, his hand sliding lower to stroke him slowly back to life. He whimpered, hips lifting from the bed and Rory smiled smugly.   
"You begged me so nicely to _let you_ , Mhàr.... we'll see if you can convince me to _**stop~**_ " 

Mhàrtainn felt tears prick his eyes, and was gratified when Rory licked them off his cheek. His 'cousin' might be sadistic, but he loved and savored every sinful moment.


End file.
